The blond Russian was curled up in his bed in his little apartment; he was tired, having just gotten home from stopping in headquarters give his verbal report to Alexander Waverly on the success of his latest assignment. That was protecting the son of the Ambassador from Turkey. The boy would be attending New York University in an exchange student program and needed to be safely settled in.
His father's security people could be a little rough, and needed to get used to dealing with Americans. Not everyone saying hello to Gülabar Küçük needed to be strong-armed, and if his body guards continued to treat the other students that way, it would make for an unpleasant stay at college.
Illya was not only impressed with the intellectual level of the young man, but his manners as well. It was a refreshing change from such past assignments where the offspring of diplomatic personnel were terrors, who drove him crazy, with some of the girls making attempts to get him to take them out or to have sex with them. Most annoying indeed.
The temperature in the city had dropped well below zero, and the radiator in his bedroom seemed to be going on the fritz, no matter how many times he banged on it, using a less than usual technical approach, nothing worked; it was giving off inadequate heat. The radiator in the living room was being just as uncooperative, and there he could feel a chilling draft coming from around the window. That he sealed off with a bit of masking tape.
He cursed under his breath, not only at the lack of heat, but also at the fact that he's realized he'd become soft from living in the West.
At home in his apartment in Moskva, though shared with six other adults, they often did without heat in far colder Russian winters, and a wood burning stove did little to warm those who slept in the kitchen, much less the rest of them who slept in the other room. Illya had his own cot and blanket, yet there were times he envied the two others who shared the room with him, with a big bed to themselves.
On a cold night having someone next to your body for warmth was a good thing, even if they stank...well maybe not. Illya avoided his flat-mate Oleg like the plague as the man simply had poor hygiene habits. It was bad enough he had to share the same room with him.
He was amazed that Ludmil was able to stay in the same bed at night with Oleg, but then again, Ludmil's nose was always stuffy..
Illya would manage sleeping through the night with his woolen blanket,, keeping his clothes on, as well as his coat and boots
When he and the others woke in the morning, the water in the bucket in the kitchen had a layer of ice that had to be broken, before it could be ladled into a pot to boil for tea, after that was ready, the kashi would be made in the same pot.
Brown bread would be toasted on the top of the cast iron stove and served with whatever was available...cheese, jam, butter, if one or any were left. Those sort of things didn't last very long with seven hungry people.
.
Illya concluded his musings, thinking perhaps this apartment in New York wasn't so bad after all, it was at least better than the one in Moskva.
Though the sun wasn't up yet, Illya got out of his bed; he was dressed in a pair of red-white and black plaid fleece pajama bottoms, a present from Napoleon, and a black sweatshirt . Somewhere on the floor beside the bed sat his slippers, another present from his partner, and he felt around in the cold until he found them and shoved his feet into them.
He grabbed his new black robe, another part of his birthday gift from his partner and trudged into the kitchen, putting on the kettle for tea, and turning up the other three gas burners on the stove to high to at least give him some extra heat.
Illya leaned against the counter, enjoying his steaming tea it as he warmed himself.
He was getting soft, yet a zero degree temperature here in New York was a far sight better than dealing with -31˚celsius back in Russian. Chuckling to himself, he thought it was practically a tropical heat wave by comparison.
He finished his tea, turned off the stove and headed back to bed as he suddenly realized it was Sunday and he was off duty. Leaving on his robe, Illya buried himself under his heavy quilts, snug as a bug.
He sniffed, smiling to himself as he knew Napoleon would be coming by later with the Sunday paper as well as bagels and pastries for breakfast.
Yes, this sort of softness he could endure...